


inertia

by jaehyoons97



Category: VIXX
Genre: Beautiful Liar!au, M/M, Mind game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 16:23:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6527320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaehyoons97/pseuds/jaehyoons97
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Come... back,” he whispers into the cold air, and his throat immediately feels dry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	inertia

**Author's Note:**

> enjoy~

The velvet card in his hands is like a broken glass, with every strokes of his fingers on the embroidered silver writing feels like tiny crystal shatters, pricking and leaving itchy scars along his fingertips. The small artificial flower attached to it is even worse; despite its eternal beauty, the idea that it subtly represents,  _immortality_ , feels like a choking stab that sends a bitter pang of irony on his tongue.

And when he reads the name on the card, all too familiar and blooms buds of memories he thought have wilted, he could almost hear  _him_ laughing in disdain at how he blinks and squints in attempt to see his name magically appears next to it.

Almost.

He collects spit from under his tongue for him to swallow, lubricating his vocal chords. He hasn’t talked for weeks, he isn’t sure if he’s able to anymore.

But he opens his mouth anyway.

“Come... back,” he whispers into the cold air, and his throat immediately feels dry.

What’s left then is silence, like how it has been for awhile. Like how it has been for 6 months, 2 weeks and 4 days.

No, he hasn’t been counting.

He suppresses the smile that’s tugging at his lips.

He figures he must wait.

 

. . .

 

Frustration never springs up no matter how many times he pulls the cursor back to the left corner of his monitor, replaying the same ‘guidance’ video on his laptop for the nth time. His fingers have been stuck several times in the splices of his tie and there is a crack on his nail from unfastening the impossible knot to redo the whole thing but he still has yet to discover the wonders of making a decent bowtie.

It’s been nearly an hour. If by ten minutes he still hasn’t figured it out, he’ll just have to suffice with the ugly bolo tie Hakyeon gave him on his last birthday. Where in the world are his regular ties even?

“Ow!” he hisses, this time breaking his nail for real and he hurriedly sucks the blood off of his finger.

He threw himself on the bed, not minding the wrinkles he’s imprinting on his sharp outfit, and exhales in languid. He turns his head to the side and his gaze instantly falls upon the opened drawer, its content spilling out, making puddles of black and white clothes on the floor. 

He draws his finger from his mouth and examines the bleeding; red is probably the only not-monochrome color he's okay with but he's thrown every shades of red in his room away, along with his cuff links, his watch, his cologne, his—

"Come back," he calls out, his voice hoarse and low and vibrates in worry.

He clutches the bed sheet with one hand, almost ripping it as his knuckles turns white but once again, he is met with silence.

He pushes himself of the bed, tugging the bowtie off of his collar and snatches his car key.

He knows where his neckties are.

But who needs them anyway?

 

. . .

 

This is his last chance.

His last plan and last resort and everything he's hoping for.

His steps are light and easy as he waltz into the building. The sound of his footsteps along the carpeted floor seems reverberating as his feet brings him closer and closer to the door. When he finally reaches the chamber and opens the door, he sees her and wants to gather her in his arms, kiss the consternation away from her face and tell her once again, that he loves her.

But he doesn't.

Because she cowers away from him and that is enough to show how much of a damage they have become.

Her rose lips—it's  _cherry red_ , she corrected him once, but he insists with rose because the flower suits her, just like how it perfectly perches on her hair like a crown with transparent veil attached to it—are agape and quivering upon the sight of him so he takes one step back, giving her space.

“You came,” she comments, her eyes scanning him from head to toe, as if assuring her that he is real. “My mother invited you, didn’t she?”

He remains quiet.

“Please leave,” she tells him and the words sting but his expression stills. His heart stills.

“Come back,” his voice came out soft and pleading and he should be hating how pathetic his tone sounds.

She blinks at his request and her face twists in disbelief, hazel eyes shooting questions at him.

“Come  _back_ ,” he repeats, falling to his knees and bending over until his nose is only inches from the floor he can almost smell the sharp scent of the marble. Humiliation begins engulfing him in, sickening him and he’s supposed to break free but he doesn’t care. He already threw his pride out the window a long time ago anyway.

“Taekwoon,” she calls but his gaze doesn’t leave the floor. “ _Leave_.”

“Come back,” he tries again, this time louder and he snaps his eyes shut, sensing anger bubbling in his head but then implodes into nothing. 

This is confusing; why isn’t this working? She is right there, in front of him, and he’s practically begging and crushing his own self-worth to gain the most loathsome thing: pity. But like always,  _nothing_ is happening.

“ _Leave!_ ”

“Come back!” he shouts now, because he’s as stubborn as a five year-old, and pushes himself back on his feet.

“No!”

“ _Come back_!”

“Stop!”

_Stop._

Blood is rushing under his skin and he lifts his head to look at her widened eyes. His heart almost softens when he notices the tears pooling at the corners of her eyes but he takes a glimpse over her shoulder, catching his reflection in the full body mirror behind her, and he rushes forward right then.

She smells like roses too, he thinks, when he traps her between himself and the mirror. Her tiara fell as his elbow accidentally brushes her hair when he raises his hand to touch the cool surface of the mirror. He looks up, staring at his other hand that curls into fist, which just seconds ago created a deep crack on the mirror and took away all senses from his knuckle. He fixes his gaze at the broken reflection, observing his disheveled white hair and red eyes that holds rage, and breathes out.

“I’m sorry,” he manages to say, before stepping back and retreating from her sight.

 

. . .

 

“I’m sorry.”

He is back in his room, half-stripped from his tux, and lying on his mattress. The bed seems a bit too stuffy for one person, but he likes it better that way.

_You win._

Taekwoon has never won anything in his life, so he isn't sure if the honey-like excitement on his tongue is what people describe with the sweet taste of winning.

"We both did."

_I'm still not happy_.

"But you're never happy."

_That's why you chase me away_.

He is used to the silence now, but that's because he knows this time he's not alone.

"I'm sorry."

_Stop saying sorry_.

"I missed you."

_And whose fault was that_.

"I'm sorry."

_Well I'm back now. Happy?_

Taekwoon smiles for the first time in a long while.

"Wonshik," he calls, "I'm never happy."

**Author's Note:**

> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/jaehyoons97) so you can inspire me with some prompts


End file.
